Wanted
by Kritikos
Summary: Vash the Stampede was wanted by the police. “Derringer Meryl” was on the run from a vengeful gang. The odds that they would meet were a million to one. But they did. Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun.
1. Default Chapter

A gentle zephyr stirred the golden sands of Gunsmoke, rustling through the reeds. Night had fallen an hour ago, but Meryl Stryfe could still make out the thunderheads piling in the west, black against the dark night sky. Although the storm was about a week away, the air already seemed heavy and electric.

Meryl sighed and leaned over the porch balustrade. According to the clock on the mantle, she should have left for work five minutes ago. At first, she'd thought her job at Bernadelli Insurance Company would be enough to make ends meet, but in the end she'd had to take up a second job, working as a waitress in the Diner across town. The hours were ungodly and the pay left something to be desired–but it would hold her over until she had enough money to blow this town once and for all.

Meryl pushed off the banister and stepped into the cobblestone street, her eyes lingering over the farmhouses she passed. The windows were lashed shut, the houses dark. Less than a month ago, this street had been cheerfully lit and bustling. Then the Desperados had decided to make October City their home, and things had changed. Littered beer cans and cigarette butts appeared on the once-clean streets. The bars were clogged with gang members, mobsters; things only got worse. The Desperados were a nasty gang of rummies and thugs, and October's residents had quickly holed themselves up at home, only leaving when necessary.

Meryl could hear and smell the diner before she saw it: it stank of stale beer, ammonia, and testosterone. She hated it, from the cheesy saloon doors to the cheap Formica tables. But she almost had enough to leave town for good. When the sand steamer came in two months, Meryl would be on it, shaking the dust from October off her feet.

She paused before the swinging half-doors and steeled herself. There was a full crowd tonight, and she judged that two-thirds were already drunk. Meryl pushed back a shock of dark hair, took a deep breath, and entered the saloon. The smell of unwashed bodies and vomit hit her like a brick wall, and she halted until a wave of nausea had passed. Doing her best to ignore the wolf whistles and drunken laughter, she walked behind the counter. She could feel the hungry gaze of the Desperados and let her hand rest on the holster sewn into her coat. She wouldn't take chances.

"Meryl!" A voice hissed at her. Meryl glanced up to see Jane, a scowl set on her haggard-looking face. "Meryl, where have you been? Your shift started _twenty minutes ago_!"

"Sorry," she replied, offering no explanation.

"Take the bar," Jane said. "I'll service tables tonight."

With an inward groan, Meryl stepped behind the counter, where a line of gangsters had gathered.

"Hey, Sugar!" A flabby, tattooed gangster was hunkered over the bar. He had a mullet haircut that probably hadn't been washed for weeks and a bull ring through his nose. The guy was a frequenter, called himself "Red Jenkins". Meryl had never bothered to ask how Jenkins got his name, but she secretly thought it fitting because the man's face was always a bright shade of red.

"Hey, Red," Meryl said with considerably less enthusiasm. Red flicked his tongue suggestively and Meryl fought hard to keep her temper. "What do you want tonight, Red? A screwdriver?"

"Make it sweet, Sugar." Meryl mixed the drink strong, hoping it would take some of the fight out of the gangster. She placed it on the counter before Jenkins and watched with mixed disgust and fascination as he tossed it back, spilling most down his chin.

"Hey, waitress! A shot of whiskey!"

"Make that two!"

"I'll take a scotch and soda."

Meryl began mixing the drinks as quickly as they were called out, setting the alcohol on the counter. The smoke inside the small diner was hanging like fog in the air, and Meryl tried to breathe through her mouth. She wiped away beads of perspiration with the back of her hand. The diner was too damn hot–all these people thronged together on a scorching summer night. It was like a furnace. She took a shuddering breath and paused for moment, leaning her small frame against the kitchen doorjamb.

"Are you deaf!" Thundered Red. "I said, I want another drink. Make it stiff!"

Meryl's temper was dangerously close to boiling over. "Here!" She cried, slamming the entire supply of vodka on the bar. "Knock yourself out." She was aware that the diner had gone deathly quiet, but she just didn't care. Her blood was thrumming in her ears, and she was ready for a good fight.

"I don't like that tone you're taking with me, _Sugar_," Red growled through clenched teeth. Meryl's heart beat faster. Red was known for violent outbursts. Her hands went cold, and she wondered how well her twin derringers would hold up against a mob of armed Desperados.

"Say you're sorry," he said in the same, low tone. Meryl opened her mouth, but couldn't bring the words up. Stubbornness won out over common sense. She stared at him levelly for a few moments, then turned to leave.

"_I'm_ not finished!" Boomed Red. With surprising speed, he grabbed her wrist tightly in one meaty hand. Meryl felt a stab of panic as the bones ground together. Red's face had deepened to a dark purple and a vein was pulsing in his forehead.

"Say you're sorry," he repeated. The diner waited with bated breath, and Meryl could see several men's hands drift toward their guns. Without warning, Red's grip tightened on her wrist, sending shooting pains up her arm.

"Let go of me!" Meryl tried not to let the pain seep into her voice, tried to sound strong. She was surprised when her demand came out more like a plea. Red's lips curved up into a malicious smile, and sweat quivered at his pallet. Suddenly, Meryl wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk of his face. The pressure inside was building, building, until she couldn't take it anymore. She unsnapped the holster in her coat.

"I'm warning you." Her voice was steadier now, in control.

"What you gonna do, Sugar?" Leered Red.

Before she could stop herself, Meryl whisked the gun from its pocket, placing the steel muzzle against his forehead. "This," she said coldly. Then she fired.

The gunshot echoed doubly loud in the stunned diner. For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. Meryl's finger slackened on the trigger, her breathing ragged and uneven. She tried to steady herself, slow her breathing. She was going to hyperventilate.

The adrenaline that had surged through her veins was quickly fading and reality was beginning to set in. She had killed a man. Not just any man–Red Jenkins. A Desperado. With this new thought, Meryl's eyes darted to the Desperados. Their eyes were dull, uncomprehending. Hell, she couldn't believe it herself. A lean, sinewy man finally stirred. His nostrils flared, eyes narrowed.

"You," he breathed, voice husky from years of unfiltered smoke. The room was coming alive again. Gangsters were standing, a mix of shock and pure animalistic rage on their faces. Meryl felt a flutter of despair as the gang blocked the door. With a roar, one man raised his sawn-off shotgun and took careful aim.

"No!" Cried the sinewy man. He raised a hand to stop them. Meryl's brain was going 100 mph as she tried to remember the lean man's name. John something. John Rot. _Why can't these people have _normal _names?_ Meryl wondered briefly. Rot reached into his pocket a withdrew a long, evil-looking knife. "Let's have some fun first."

Meryl's stomach lurched. She dropped the one-shot derringer and drew out its twin. She knew she couldn't stop them all with one bullet. She needed something else.

"She's got a gun," someone murmured.

"It's a derringer," spat Rot. "It only has one shot."

"Yes," Meryl shouted, aware of the desperation in her voice. "But who's willing to take the risk? This bullet could be for any one of you. Who wants to try first?"

The Desperados faltered, and Meryl felt a moment of relief, until one man yelled: "_SHE KILLED RED JENKINS!" _

"Get her!"

The men were all advancing at once. Meryl aimed the gun at one man, then another. Her hand was shaking badly. She couldn't seem to get it to cooperate. She realized she couldn't bring herself to kill another man, anyway. With sudden resolve, Meryl raised the gun and fired her last shot. The plaster ceiling was cheap, she knew, and she hoped the small bullet would be enough to take it down. The ceiling groaned, chunks of plaster and clouds of white dust spewing over the Desperados. It wasn't much, but it was the diversion she needed. Meryl darted into the kitchen, using the dust from the ceiling, the smoke, and the gunpowder as a smokescreen.

The kitchen was little more than a glorified closet, and at 6' by 6', it only had room to accommodate one person at a time. Set into the far wall was a window that hadn't been opened since sometime in the last decade. She could tell she didn't have much time. Already, the buzz of the crowd had faded into restrained silence.

"Where did she go?"

"Where do you think, fool! Through that door."

A bullet tore through the wall, nicking her cheekbone slightly. _Shit. They're firing through the wall_. Meryl took a deep breath, then launched herself at the window. Despite the low-quality doors, walls, and ceilings, the window was surprisingly strong. It was a double-pane and Meryl hit the glass painfully. Her head throbbed from where she'd hit it against the window, and she shook her head to clear the thoughts. She backed up, and ran at the window again, bracing herself for the impact this time. A fracture appeared in the perfect glass. She tested, pushed it, but it wasn't large enough. From the angry hum of the Desperados, Meryl guessed they had regrouped and were coming after her. With a cry, she flung herself at the window, astonished when it gave way and she found herself lying among shards of glass in the alley outside. She tried to stand up, then swayed dangerously, her stomach pitching. For a moment, her vision blackened, then returned. There was a whiz overhead and a shower of brick fell on her. Fighting back the nausea, Meryl staggered unevenly to her feet and looked around wildly. The Desperados poured from the swinging saloon doors like an angered cloud of wasps. Down the street was her house. If she could make it there...then what? They would leave her alone? The triumph of her escape from the diner quickly bled away. She would be an obvious target on the open street.

Meryl's eyes fell on Mr. Harris' thomas, tethered to the post outside his house. "Sorry, Mr. Harris," Meryl murmured as she fumbled with the knot. Her heart was beating so painfully, she was afraid she might have a heart attack right there in the road. The reins slipped loose from the post and Meryl mounted the Thomas urging it onward, away from the Desperados, toward the desert. The lifeless desert.


	2. The 60 Billion Man

1Meryl was hot. And starving. And most of all, she was thirsty. She had only been in the desert for two days, but already her tongue had swollen like a balloon in her mouth until it was difficult for her to talk. Her lips were cracked and dry–she hadn't had anything to drink for forty-eight hours. What's more, she ached from a hundred different places. There was no help for it: she'd have to make a trip to the city. Not October–they were expecting her there. One of the suburbs, like Fest. Or Baker.

Meryl stripped off her coat. She was about to discard her derringer, then decided against it–if she ran into a Desperado, he wouldn't be able to tell it wasn't loaded. The pistol could very well save her life. She considered trying to change her appearance, but there was no use. The sand that caked her neck and forehead, coupled with the narrow graze the bullet had left on her cheekbone would give her away.

For now, the wind from the coming storm was doing a good job of covering her tracks. But the storm was due in only a handful of days; after that, there would be no hiding from the Desperados. She mounted the thomas and headed south-southwest to the bubbly town of Baker. She figured Baker, with it's crowded streets and easy atmosphere, would be easier to melt into.

Meryl tied the thomas to a watering trough and used the water to rinse away the dirt cemented to her face. She didn't trust the water to drink though, even as thirsty as she was. She stared at her reflection in the water, amazed at how much had changed in two days. There were dark bags under her eyes, dark bruises on her jawline from where she'd hit the glass. A dozen scratches marred her neckline, and her hair was disheveled and marbled with desert sand. She stood up abruptly and stumbled into an eatery, seating herself on the red barstool.

The eatery was nothing like the diner had been last night. It had gleaming black and white checked floors and polished tables. The air was clear and sweet. The whole place had a wholesome look. She dug change from her pocket and put it on the counter.

"Water," she rasped, amazed she could still speak. The bartender set down a glass he has been drying and left for the other room, returning with a pitcher of water and a large glass. He poured a generous amount out, which she eyed thirstily. She downed the glass, then another and another. Still, the constriction in her throat didn't seem to go away.

The bartender rummaged through the cupboards, handing her a vial of rock salt. "How long have you been out there?" He asked concernedly.

Meryl took several deep breaths. "Two days."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "Without water?" His tone implied just how crazy he thought she was.

"Yes," Meryl answered curtly, trying to discourage conversation.

"Well, you're dehydrated," he said, mixing the salt into her water. _No shit,_ thought Meryl dryly.

"Drink this. It'll bring up your electrolytes. You won't feel so thirsty." Meryl scrutinized the drink, the shrugged and raised it to her lips. She was beginning to feel sick, like her stomach couldn't take all the water after two days of thirsting in the dunes.

"What's all this?" Meryl asked vaguely, gesturing the streets outside. Baker was usually crowded, but today it was exceptionally packed . The whole town seemed to be buzzing with excitement. The chatter of voices could be heard from inside the diner.

"You haven't heard?" The man asked, surprised. "Oh, right. The desert." He leveled a gaze at her. "The Desperados left October two days ago. Right in the middle of the night. They didn't say a thing–just left. There are one or two still there, but most of them just took off. Baker's been celebrating since."

_So the Desperados have left October_. _They're hunting me, now. _Meryl stood up, a little unsteadily, and headed for the door.

She looked left and right down the busy street. Signs advertising fresh fruits, bars, and material shops whipsawed in the breeze. Meryl stepped into the road and was almost bowled over by the activity. She descried a gunsmith's shop and fought against the flow to reach it. She needed a gun–a real gun–if she was going to survive.

Vash the Stampede regarded the city of Baker cheerfully. The town wasn't big–it was more of a suburb built in the outskirts of October. Vash had lost his interest in big cities: Crime in every alley, "Wanted" posters plastered to every streetlight. There were just too many money-hungry people out for an easy 60 million double dollars.

Besides, Baker had seemed like a nice enough place to live. He'd heard it was settled by displaced chefs. Vash liked the sound of that.

Late afternoon was falling over Baker Square Park; A large fountain was centered in the square, water glittering under the sunlight. Vash chose one of the granite benches at the edge of the park and sat down, leaning back into the shadows. As cheery as the city was, it didn't match the descriptions Vash had heard at all. He'd assumed it would be a friendly, quiet atmosphere. Somewhere to catch his breath, if only for a few weeks. Instead, he was mildly taken aback at the aura of the place. It was bright and festive. Musicians were playing in the boulevards and laughter rang loudly in the small town. Citizens, dressed to the nines, had gathered around the street performers and were cheering.

Vash smiled contentedly, happy to be away from the melancholy of July. His face darkened momentarily as he remembered what it had felt like to walk through the ruined city. Debris still littered the ground, and the smell of decay was thick in the air. He doubted if either would ever truly go away. But here, perched at the edge of Baker Square Park, thoughts of July couldn't be farther away.

His aquamarine eyes followed a pair of children trying to fish a ball out of the fountain without falling in. Lazily, he unfolded his long limbs and stood, pausing long enough to slip on his signature topaz sunglasses.

"Hey, fellas!" He said brightly, crouching beside the two boys. "Want some help?"

Shyly, the older one nodded, and Vash looked up at large green-and-blue ball that bobbed on the water. Cautiously, Vash climbed onto the basin's brim. Baker Square's fountain was wider than it appeared, he mused as he balanced on the lip of the stone and stretched his hand out toward the wayward toy. His fingers brushed against it, sending it careening in the other direction. Vash huffed a sigh and tried again, leaning as far over as he dared. Suddenly his boot slipped on the slick fountain rim, losing purchase, and he tumbled head over heels into the water.

The boys were laughing silently, and Vash couldn't stop a slow, lopsided smile from sneaking onto his face. He covered it by snatching the ball and standing to his full height. He tried to be as stately as possibly as he untangled his sunglasses from where they'd been forced askew. "Here you go, boys." He said, handing the boys their plaything. "Promise not to go near the fountain again?" He said with mock seriousness.

The boys nodded energetically and he ruffled the tall one's hair. The children darted off down the street to a safer spot, leaving Vash dripping in the middle of the Park, dumb smile fixed onto his face. With a start, he realized how ridiculous he must look. _I should get out of these clothes_, he thought with a rueful glance at his trademark red jacket. "I guess it's best I don't wear it for awhile anyway," he murmured, as his eyes fell on the top ten most wanted list outside the sheriff's office.

He started down the dusty street, noting the shops left and right. The city was awhirl with excitement, and no one seemed to notice him squelch by. He stopped outside a tailor's shop, then fingered the money in his pocket. It was enough for a change of clothes and a place to spend the night.

Ten minutes later, Vash walked out of the store in a white dress shirt and black slacks, his soaked clothes folded into a package and tucked beneath his arm. Nothing could be done for his sodden boots. He'd have to tough it out. As for his gun...well, it'd probably be best to get it to a gunsmith. It was in need of a good cleaning anyway.

Vash stopped before the gunsmith's. The handwritten sign over the door read "Open", so he shouldered past the swinging doors and into the musty shop. The gunsmith, a wiry, mustached man, was in heated debate with a slender woman. Vash watched with mild interest as the woman took out a derringer and laid it on the counter between them. The gunsmith shook his head and went into the back of the store. There was sounds of rummaging and the lady looked around, allowing her irritation to seep through. She was much younger than Vash had thought–only in her twenties. Her short, sable hair was streaked with sand, and her face was scratched and bruised. Her stormy grey-violet eyes, however, were fiery and there was a defiant tilt to her chin.

Realizing he was staring too hard, Vash lowered his gaze to the gun in his hand. Water leaked from the clogged barrel as he fished out the bullets, hoping they weren't too badly damaged: bullets were expensive. The gunsmith had returned, and Vash watched from the corner of his eye.

"This what you're looking for?" He asked, handing her the gun. She checked it deftly, opened the chamber. "There aren't any bullets," she said.

"Bullets cost extra," he replied.

"How many rounds does it hold?"

"Fifteen."

Vash's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He recognized the model she was holding: it had less punch than his own handgun, a 6-round pistol that had been a gift from Millions Knives. But when it came to sheer numbers, the 15-round firearm had his beat. _Where is she going with that? _He wondered.

"I'll take thirty bullets," she said handing him a rolled-up wad of double dollars. The gunsmith reached into a carton, counted out thirty bullets and slipped them into a drawstring pouch before stuffing the cash into his pocket.

"Can I help you sir?" Asked the gunsmith.

Vash looked up, feeling irrationally guilty. "My gun needs a cleaning."

"Let's see it."

Vash handed the weapon over reluctantly, feeling defenseless despite the gun built into his forearm.

"This is curious," the man murmured, enraptured. "Where did you find this?" He demanded.

"It was a gift," The Stampede said simply.

The man grunted. "It'll be ready in an hour."

"That long?" Yelped Vash. He didn't like the idea of being unarmed, though he rarely used the gun.

"Can't be helped." The gunsmith sniffed.

A gleam of metal caught Vash's eye and he glanced down at the counter, half surprised to see the mysterious woman had left her derringer there. He glanced around, but she was already gone.

"How much for this derringer?" He asked. The gunsmith picked it up, turned it over in his hands. It was old, but it had been well-kept and polished.

"$$200." The smith decided abruptly.

Vash gave the man $$75. "Take it or leave it."

The gunsmith palmed the money greedily, and Vash made sure the gun was not loaded before tucking it into the waistband of his slacks.

"I'll be back in one hour," he said, tossing the gunsmith a pollyannaish wave.


	3. The Escape

Thanks for the reviews! I have one question: how in the world do you put up a disclaimer? Unfortunately, I do _not _own Trigun, and I'm waiting for some lawyer to descend upon me and tear me apart any second. Please keep up the reviews--I'm a fledgling and I need the help!

Vash had been in Baker for two whole days now. He had managed to rent a bedroom for three weeks on the margins of Baker. He'd been hoping for an ordinary home, far away from the heart of town where he'd be noticed more easily. He had found what he was looking for in the small, quaint shotgun house at the very edge of the city.

Vash was in his rented room–a comfortable chamber with wallpaper that had gone out of style years ago. His red "geranium" coat was spread out on the bed, now dry, along with his gun. Vash chewed his lip as he debated whether or not he should chance being seen in it.

"Oh, well," he murmured cheerfully as he slipped into it. He had worn the overcoat for so long that he felt exposed without it. His stomach growled and he frowned. Next step: dinner.

Outside, the energy of the city had gone down slightly. At least it was less noisy. The sun had just set and night was falling quickly. Baker certainly must have been settled by chefs, because every street was punctuated with small restaurants and pastry shops. Vash stood in the middle of the street, torn between a seafood café and a pizzeria. Salmon sandwiches won out and a few minutes later he was seated in the dusky atmosphere of the seafood restaurant. He tried to keep his face low and hidden: the people seem too absorbed to recognize him, but he wouldn't take chances.

A waitress came and filled his order, then disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door. Vash gave his company a wary survey, and was startled to see that many of them were tough-looking, heavily-muscled men with powerful firearms. He wondered if it was too late to eat at the pizzeria.

"They call him 'The Stampede'," the nearest bounty hunter was saying. "I guess the guy made a mess of July."

"So what?" Asked his companion disinterestedly as he sipped his drink.

The first hunter leaned forward, lowering his voice so that Vash had to strain to hear. "So now Vash The Stampede is numero uno on the top ten most wanted list. I hear there's a sixty billion double dollar reward."

The second man's voice was sharper now. "Sixty billion!"

"Yeah. They say he's in Baker _right now_."

Vash felt a little sick and tried to judge the distance from his table to the door. He sorely regretted deciding to wear his bright red coat.

"Do you think we have what it takes to catch this guy?" The second bounty hunter was asking.

His friend scoffed. "Catch him? No, we don't. He's got to be slippery to have gotten this far. We aim to kill."

Vash's gut tightened.

"So what's he look like, anyway?"

"Well, last they hear, he was wearing a red greatcoat. He's got blond hair, spikes it or something. But don't go to heavily on appearances. Vash is probably a master at disguises. If he had any brains, he'd have ditched the jacket."

Vash's face reddened. He needed to get out of here–fast. He picked up a menu and angled it so the hunters couldn't see his face, then slid out of the booth and walked quickly to the exit.

"Mister?" _Oh, no_. The waitress was trailing after him.

"Hey!" She said angrily. "Where do you think you're going? You haven't paid yet."

_I haven't eaten yet, either_, Vash thought. Instead of mentioning this, he handed her a few bills, tried to be inconspicuous. It was too late.

"Hey, it's The Stampede!" Came a cry. There was an eerie silence as every head turned to look at Vash.

_Quickly, say something intelligent to discourage them! _His mind screamed. He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. A minute passed. _Okay, say something unintelligent. Just say something_.

"No, I'm not," he squeaked. _Brilliant. 'No, I'm not.'_ _That ought to convince them_.

Vash sized up the situation. Every man was on his feet and tensed, ready for him to make the first move. Without hesitation, Vash turned and dashed out the door, acutely aware of the spray of bullets that buried themselves in the door behind him. The door banged open, and Vash darted into an alley to avoid being seen. The back street was a cul-de-sac. He was trapped.

"HAS ANYONE SEEN A BLOND MAN IN A RED COAT?" Boomed a voice in the street. There was a low, confused murmur, then:

"No, why?"

"The guy's a dangerous criminal. Shoot on sight."

Vash glanced around wildly and spotted his salvation. Someone had carelessly left the first-story window ajar in the brick building that made up the left side of the alleyway. He dove head-first and landed with a clatter on the floor of a darkened clothes store. Looking around, Vash was struck with an idea. He snatched a pair of sunglasses and a fedora, then stripped off his coat and stuffed it into a duffel. He jammed the hat over his hair, donned the glasses and shouldered the bag. Then, on afterthought, he left some money on the counter top–Vash the Stampede was not a thief.

He walked out of the store, trying to ignore the staccato gunfire. One man looked strangely at him, and Vash was acutely aware of how odd sunglasses at night must have seemed. The man simply shook his head and walked off, and Vash fetched a sigh of relief.

Vash continued, unnoticed, into the desert. He had no drink, no food, and little cash. Baker, he decided, was a perverse disappointment.


	4. Enter the Stampede

Disclaimer: I do not own Trigun, nor do I own Meryl or Vash.

Marie Ward, ibogal, SBcowgirljunkie, EmpressGalaxia, Aine of Knockaine, Leviathon's son, Pailay, and Ashari: Thanks for your support.

Pailay: Milly makes her appearance at the end. I'm a little wary of writing Milly, because I haven't even gotten the hang of Vash or Meryl. Sorry if characters seem OOC: I feel like a chimpanzee with a revolver right now.

* * *

Meryl leaned over a pile of tinder and dry brush, striking flint against stone. She was struggling, unsuccessfully, to light a fire; as warm and dry as the night was outside, it was dank and chilly inside the little cavern. But the few sparks from the flint and steel refused to catch on the fire bedding she had made, and each dull brattle of stone striking stone only served to feed her frustration until she was ready to throw the whole experiment away.

She had been lucky to find the cave–if you could call it that. It was more like a small fissure in the rock. But it kept out the winds, which were stronger now than ever, and with luck it would get her safely through the storm.

Meryl's problem was bigger than just finding shelter, however. The Desperados were after her. Not right now–for now they had returned to October to wait out the storm. But they would redouble their efforts in less than a week and they would find her. The gun she had picked up at Baker was not very comforting: she had secretly vowed never to use a gun to seriously injure someone again. Besides, she would be dead before she managed to get off more than one or two rounds. Her only chance was to escape to another town. Of course, that was impossible. It would have been impossible even without the storm. Meryl only had the few liters of water and some canned rations that she'd carried out of Baker. Hardly enough to support a harrowing dash to the nearest city.

Meryl stood, stretched, and dusted herself off. The thomas was standing lazily near the mouth of the crevasse. Thomas', with their amazing ability to retain water and incredible endurance, were perfect desert mounts. Mr. Harris' thomas would be able to last for another week and a half, at least.

She joined the animal by the cavern's entrance, her eyes moving over the wasteland of the desert. She allowed her gaze to wander toward the cities. First Fest, then October, then Baker. Suddenly she stiffened. Haloed in the glow of the city lights, a lone figure was making its way toward her.

She couldn't see well in the half-light of twilight, but he seemed tall and athletic. He was moving awkwardly, and she could see the bulge of a haversack slung over his shoulder. _Could the Desperados still be out here? _She wondered. The thought made her stomach flutter with anxiety, yet she found herself intrigued as the figure drew nearer.

Despite the headwinds he was making good progress. She could see his dark hat, tugged low over his face, and a zany pair of goggle-like sunglasses. He was struggling now, having a difficult time finding footholds going uphill in the shifting sands. He didn't look anything like a Desperado, and Meryl wondered what he was doing so far out at this late hour.

With sudden decision, Meryl mounted the thomas and checked her holster. She still had her sidearm if he tried to pull a fast one–but somehow she didn't think he would. She urged the thomas forward, out into the night.

Vash realized what a mistake his "escape" into the desert had been. He had been trekking for two hours and there was still no sign of shelter. He knew that he would need to turn around soon and head back. And the citizens of Baker would be waiting for him. They had whipped themselves into a frenzy; yelling, shooting, trashing the entire city. Going back to Baker would mean certain death. With luck, he could get to Fest and disguise himself. But Fest was so far away and the sands made it difficult to find traction. Vash sat, partially sheltered from the wind by the dunes in front of him. His feet had gone numb, and the haversack was heavy on his shoulder. He slipped it off and rested in the valley.

He was just about to get back up and try for Fest when he heard the scraunchof footsteps in sand. He scrambled to his feet and looked around wildly. There was no way–_no way_–anyone had followed him from Baker.

He opened his mouth to ask who was there and choked on the sand being whipped up by the wind instead. He could make out a figure looming to the right and tried to find an escape route. But in the vale with mounds of sand surrounding him, he didn't stand a chance.

Meryl approached the man guardedly. He cut a ridiculous figure: his white dress shirt was now an appalling shade of tan. His glasses were already scratched, and his face was almost invisible beneath the sand. Still, she felt she had seen this man before somewhere...

Vash squinted. He was almost positive he knew the woman on the thomas. The defiant tilt to her chin, the short black hair. She was the lady from the gunsmith's. He straightened, picked up his bag.

The woman leaned down and offered a hand, which Vash eagerly accepted. Without a word, she turned the thomas back toward the wasteland and pressed the animal forward.

A few minutes later, the thomas slowed, and the woman dismounted, gesturing for him to do the same. She led him into a fissure in the rock formation that he hadn't noticed earlier.

Vash's stomach groaned, and he gave a sheepish grin. "Uh...you wouldn't happen to have any doughnuts, would you?"

The lady handed him a liter of water and some nasty-looking meat. Still food was food, and Vash chewed happily, sipping only now and then to conserve the water.

His rescuer broke the silence first, asking: "What were you doing twelve iles from the nearest city, alone, without any rations?"

The question was tricky: Vash was reluctant to tell her his identity for fear she might be a bounty hunter.

"I don't think Baker's residents liked me very much,"he answered evasively.

The dark-haired sylph seemed to accept his response. She didn't speak for a few beats, until the quiet was like a third presence. Then she cocked her head and gave him a curious look. "What's your name?"

"Vash," he said, hoping she didn't read the "Ten Most Wanted" list.

Apparently she did. "Vash the Stampede?" she asked, a faint note of disbelief in her tone.

"What's _your_ name?" He asked meekly, not liking the direction this was taking.

The woman hesitated for a moment. Then her eyes flashed and she said. "My name is Derringer Meryl."


	5. Fun and Games

A/N: Another short chapter; sorry. I tried my hand at something that is _not _all action, and I'm anxious to know how you like it. R&R!  
shatterdheart, Parrhasis, Marie Ward, Leviathon's Son, and saraki:Thanks for the compliments.  
EmpressGalaxia: yeah, I thought the chapters were a little short. Oh...and thankyouthankyouthankyou for putting me on story alerts!  
Pailay: the story's not all written, but I have a chapter layout (which I've already violated...)

* * *

Vash awoke with Dawn. At first, he thought it was still night: steel gray clouds roiled in the skies, blocking out the desert sun. The wind was howling past the cave, and rain had begun to fall–just a drizzle, a foreshadowing of what was coming.

He could see his breath in the damp, frigid cave. His fingers were numb, and he flexed his hand just to make sure it was still there. There was an abandoned pile of tinder in the center of the cave, flint and steel lying, discarded nearby. Vash picked up the stones, then struck them together three times in quick succession, awarded with a shower of sparks. The sparks dulled, then caught on the dry twigs, and Vash eagerly held his hands over the open flame.

Vash changed his flimsy dress coat for the more acceptable red overcoat, leaned back against the cave wall and closed his eyes.

"Bounty hunters chased you out of Baker, huh?"

Vash's eyes flew open. He had assumed Meryl was still asleep in the back of the cave. It took him a moment to comprehend what she had said, then he felt a sinking sensation. So she knew. Well, it was now or never. His eyes darted toward the entrance.

"Hold it, Turbo. I'm not after any reward."

Vash froze. Her tone had seemed almost joking. He looked at the outlaw afresh. The bruises on her cheek were yellowing, and the cut on her cheekbone had scabbed. He wondered briefly why she was out here alone–a topic she had carefully steered away from. The awkward silence was stretching on for what seemed like an eternity and Vash needed to say _some_thing. "Say, do you have any more of that nasty-looking meat? I'm starving!"

Meryl gave him a look. "Vash the Stampede–,"

"Saverem." Vash interrupted. "My name is Vash Saverem," he offered his hand.

Meryl shook the hand. "Meryl Stryfe." She pressed her lips together, trying to phrase her question lightly. "What...happened in July?" She gave him a sideways look to calculate his reaction, but a veil had fallen over his features.

"I don't remember." He said flatly. "I just remember the wreckage..." His throat constricted as he remembered the miles of smoldering lumber, the crushed stone that marked Lost July. There were no people–just ruined homes and coffee shops. Children's toys laid, abandoned, in the alleys. It had felt like a ghost town as Vash walked through the devastation, straining to hear screams, sobs: anything that would indicate human life. But there had just been silence.

Vash forced a cheery smile on his face. "Does this mean I get to ask you a question?"

"That depends. What's your question?"

Vash leaned forward, his face a study of seriousness, and whispered: "Do you know how to play hangman?"

"N" Vash said breathlessly.

Meryl carefully scratched "N" in the used letters box and drew spiky hair on the stick figure.

Vash sat back on his heels. His poor stick man was nearly dead–he was only missing his feet. "L?"

Vash watched with a growing sense of dismay as Meryl sketched a long trench coat on the hanged man. The stick man was starting to look vaguely familiar.

"K." The stick figure gained big goggle sunglasses.

"There!" Said Meryl triumphantly, sitting back. "You lose."

"Do not! You didn't draw any feet on that stick figure! I still have two more chances."

"Give it up, Vash. You lost."

Vash pouted. "What was the word, anyway?"

"Broom-head."

"That is _not _a word!" Vash spluttered indignantly.

Meryl took a sip of water and looked at him expectantly. They had agreed earlier that the loser of each game would give up a fact about themselves. So far Vash had learned that Meryl hated overcast skies yet loved the rain. She had an addiction to Chai Latté and liked to dance when no one was watching.

"Ok," Vash conceded, tapping a finger to his lips. "My favorite food is doughnuts." He laughed at the look on Meryl's face. "It's why I came to Baker."

Vash's gaze fell on the hangman sketch in the sand. He had lost the last three times in the row. He needed to gain the upper hand. "NEW GAME!" He cried happily. "Let's play 'Going on A Picnic.' I'll go first. I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing...an apple."

"I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing and apple and a Broom-head."

"I don't think I want to play this game anymore," muttered Vash.

The two outlaws lapsed into silence, their eyes wandering over to the darkening sky. Finally, Vash asked "What are you doing here, Meryl?"

Meryl's expression told him she didn't quite understand the question. "Well," she began "It beats being out there." A jerk of her head indicated the desert.

"No; I mean out _here_, in exile. There's no premium on your head."

When no answer was forthcoming, he snuck a glance at his companion. Her hand had fluttered unconsciously to the scrapes along her jawline. "I guess," she said with a sly smile, "The people of October didn't like me very much."

Vash recognized her answer: it was the same one he'd given when she had posed the same question. He shrugged–it was only fair.

Later that night, Vash lay sleeping against the wall of stone. The fire was dying now; only a few stubborn embers burned, casting a dim, rosy glow about their chamber. Meryl watched Vash the Stampede from across the cave. He didn't look like the plants she'd seen in their holding tanks: wingéd, graceful creatures with large black eyes. No; Vash didn't resemble them at all.

She was having a hard time reconciling this fun-loving goof with the cold outlaw portrayed in the "Wanted" ads. His answer to July hadn't made any sense, and Meryl had the feeling he wasn't telling her everything.

She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her as the wind whistled by. The temperature had dropped a good fifteen degrees with the advent of the storm. The rain that had started out as a drizzle was falling more steadily now. It occurred to her now that they should find a way to block the entrance, but she dismissed it. _It's too late tonight, _she thought with a yawn. _We'll do it tomorrow_. The idea of being locked in a dark hole in the rock with Gunsmoke's most wanted man should have made her uneasy–but somehow it didn't. She fell asleep on this thought.


	6. The Tempest

A/N: This chappie's a little longer (a little cheesy too...) Desperately in need of reviews!;) Questions, comments, sarcasticremarks?

* * *

A voice shouting Meryl's name snatched her from slumber. "What?" She asked groggily, not bothering to open her eyes. There was something loud roaring next to her ear.

"Meryl!" Came the voice again.

"What!" Meryl snapped, opening her eyes blearily. Vash's panicked face came into view in the almost pitch black cave.

The roaring noise, she realized, was the shriek of the wind and rain. The sand at the mouth of their chamber was dark and slick with water. _It's finally here_, she realized. The storm had hit.

The temperature had dropped even lower overnight, and she could see her breath as she exhaled. Vash shouted something that she couldn't quite hear over the tempest.

"What?" She shouted.

"I _said_, we need to block the entrance!"

Meryl, now fully awake, stood up. "With what?"

Vash didn't reply, but headed toward the back of the cave. Deeper within the protecting rock, the storm was muffled by the thick stone.

"What's this?" Meryl asked curiously. There was a fracture in the rock, barely enough to pass through sideways, that led into blackness.

"I think this cave is a back door," he said. "It leads somewhere."

Meryl stared at the fissure appraisingly. "The back door to what?" She asked.

Instead of replying, Vash slipped into the fracture. In the dim lighting, she could barely make out his form scuttling through the rock.

"Vash!" Meryl called, her voice echoing in the abyss. With a curse, she turned sideways and edged, crab-like, through the tunnel. The space was narrow, and she practically had to hold her breath to fit through. "Vash?" She asked, more quietly, as a feeling of claustrophobia overwhelmed her, making it difficult to breathe.

She felt along the wall, moving as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the rough rock scratching her skin. The silence was eery and oppressive; Meryl was blind in the pitch black, and it vaguely reminded her of a nightmare she once had as a girl.

Finally, she stumbled out the end of the fracture. "Va–," she begin, but the word died in her throat. She was in a cavernous hollow in the rock. It stretched on for what seemed like _iles_, the ground sloping steeply downward. A metal staircase had been fitted among the stalagmites, to ease the descent, and there were rows of sterile fluorescent lights adorning the ceiling. Meryl realized that the spiky-haired blond had been right: this was definitely the back door to something.

As if on cue, Meryl felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to see Vash behind her.

"Hi," he said, smiling goofily. His voice echoed and re-echoed in the cave, finally petering out after a couple minutes.

Meryl rolled her eyes in exasperation, taking a tentative step toward the staircase. She gripped the metal railing and started downward, the metallic groan of the steps beneath her feet the only sound.

Meryl was in excellent shape, but after an hour of sharp twists and turns, steep descents and shallow ones, her calves were beginning to ache. She followed the trail as it wound lazily around a rock formation, the ache gradually building into a dull burn. Ten minutes later, she seated herself on a stair and massaged her leg, trying to catch her wind. Vash bounded down the steps and sat beside her.

"How much further do you think it goes?" He asked. Meryl was surprised to find that he wasn't out of breath at all.

She simply shook her head, unsure, and stood again. She continued downward, leaning a little on the banister. She thought she could see a hint of light ahead, but that was impossible. _I'm just tired, _she thought, dismissing the idea. A few turns later, she found the light was stronger.

"Do you see that?" She whispered to Vash, needing some sort of reassurance that it was real.

"Mm." Vash confirmed.

Meryl redoubled her efforts, found herself abruptly at the base of the stairs. Just ahead was a doorframe chiseled into the rock, illuminated by some light source beyond. She slowed, took a few deep breaths, and ran her fingers through her damp, tangled hair. She glanced behind her, and found that Vash had become transfixed. His normally vacant expression had been replaced by an intense, curious one. Meryl got the idea that he somehow knew exactly what to expect.

She ducked under the small door, and immediately winced. The lighting seemed abnormally bright after her days in the dark rock. Meryl forced her eyes open, shielding them from the light fixtures with a hand. She blinked twice, slowly getting her bearings.

Her surroundings were sharply in contrast with the primitive cave next door. She was standing in a Spartan hallway, the white-tiled floor covered with an inch-thick layer of dust. Bright lights punctuated the ceiling and the walls were tall and bare. The light footfall behind her announced Vash's arrival. Meryl walked down the cool passage. There was a steel door at the end of the tunnel; grime had gathered on the slightly rusted door handle. Meryl used her sleeve to wipe it clean, then tested it, amazed to find it unlocked. She pushed the door open, then froze instantly, stunned by the sight.

The hallway had exited onto a catwalk, roughly a hundred yards above the floor. The room below was huge, apparently forgotten and in disuse. In the center of the room was a radiant holding sphere. And inside the sphere was a plant.

"It's an electricity plant," Vash murmured in her ear. The sound of his voice brought her back to reality. "She's been powering this underground building all this time."

"It doesn't look like any one has been in here for decades!" Meryl gasped.

"They haven't." Vash pointed to a plaque on the Spartan wall that read:

"Wilburt Cowell and H.L. Jennings  
Privately owned and operated"

"Cowell and Jennings?" Meryl read dumbly.

"The richest families on Gunsmoke," said Vash with a nod. "They died in a sand steamer hijack on their way to December. Wilburt and H.L. were unmarried. They never had children. There was no one to take over after they died."

"But the workers...they just left?"

Vash shrugged. "I guess they thought it had been bequeathed to a relative."

"That means this plant has been self-sustained for thirty years!"

Vash climbed down the ladder fixed to the catwalk, walked to the plant, and placed his hands on the holding glass. Meryl watched, enraptured, as he leaned his forehead against the sphere. There was a blur of movement as the plant unfurled her wings, her sightless gaze fixed on Vash. The plant pressed her thin hand against the glass, as if sensing Vash. Meryl looked on, feeling as though she didn't belong, as the plants remained locked in their positions. Without warning, Vash turned away from the glass.

"Let's go."

Meryl's eyebrows shot up. "Go where?"

"This building is a below-ground labyrinth. It links the three cities: Fest, Baker, and October."

Meryl's head was spinning. "This-this has been here all along?" She managed.

Vash nodded. "I had my suspicions when I found the fissure..." he trailed off. "Let's go." He repeated.

"I can't." She said, remembering her undignified escape from October.

Vash was giving her a strange look, and she tried to distract him by asking, "so does this place have food?"

Then gunman's look said he knew exactly what she was trying to do, but he answered her anyway. "No. It's just a powered lab. There's probably offices, chemical labs...a bathroom."

"A bathroom?" Meryl repeated hopefully.

* * *

Two hours later found Meryl seated, cross-legged on the floor. A long shower had washed away four days of sand, blood, and sweat and she had sorely regretted having to change back into her old skirt and blouse. Now she was staring at the plant with a sort of child-like rapture.

A throat cleared behind her, and she glanced up to see Vash enter. "Hi, short-stuff!" He said, sitting next to her. Meryl slapped him half-heartedly, smiling as he whined "owie!"

He followed her gaze to the plant.

"What do you do for a living?" He asked randomly.

"Huh?" Said Meryl dumbly, wondering if she'd heard him right. She had expected him to start talking about the plant, or to try to squeeze more information about her predicament.

He turned his aquamarine eyes on her, and she was startled at the change a shower had wrought in him. His hair was still damp and no longer gelled, the dirt had been washed from his face. He was actually handsome.

"What do you do for a living?" He repeated.

"I work–worked–," she amended, "for the Bernadelli Insurance Company."

Vash smiled cheekily. "You're an insurance girl!"

"I _was_," she said, wondering if she could still keep her job when the dust cleared–literally–from her situation.

"Why did you leave?" He asked.

_Oh, boy_, thought Meryl, getting ready to stand.

"No, please." Insisted Vash. Something about his tone made her pause.

Meryl remained half-standing, debating what to do. Vash's wanted poster had stated he was a pacifist. What would he do if he found out she was a murderess? She opened her mouth, closed it again. Finally she hung her head. "I killed a man," she whispered, feeling her eyes burn with unshed tears. Saying it seemed to make it final: suddenly the past week caught up with her and she sagged against the wall, silent sobs wracking her slender frame. She felt Vash catch her arm, support her. She took a shuddering breath, willed the room to stop spinning.

"You're okay," Vash was saying soothingly.

"I killed someone," Meryl repeated, hating the way it sounded.

"Do you regret it?" He asked.

Meryl licked her lips, nodded miserably. To her surprise, Vash smiled.

"Your ticket to the future," he said softly, "is always blank."


	7. Sound Life

Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun, nor do I own Meryl and Vash

A/N: This chapter has been sitting on the back burner for awhile. Hope you enjoy, and please review...I'm in need of creative energy.

* * *

A week passed had passed since Vash and Meryl stumbled across the forsaken lab. Vash had brought the "nasty-looking meat" and water supply down, but at the rate things were going they would both die of boredom anyway. The storm had ended only three days ago, but Meryl knew the desperados were already out there, looking for her. _Hunting her_. She shivered, trying to turn her thoughts to more useful things. Like escape.

Meryl had found the lab interesting at first, spending hours sifting through papers on chemical reactions and the research into plants. But it had lost its edge after the third or fourth day, and she found herself returning to the plant room more and more often, just to stare at the elegant creature. Finally, she had resorted to scrubbing her and Vash's clothes clean to keep herself working and preoccupied. It hadn't worked.

On the seventh day, she was a gun ready to go off. Two weeks without seeing civilization was slowly driving her insane...and Vash was speeding the process.

"Is this what being an outlaw is like?" She asked Vash dully one evening.

"Usually it's worse. You should consider yourself lucky that you have a charming, gorgeous rebel like me around!" He smiled sunnily

Meryl balled her hand into a fist to keep it from grabbing her gun and pistol-whipping him.

"I'm...so...bored." She groaned.

Vash stood suddenly, offered her his hand. "Let's go somewhere."

"Where? We're both wanted. In October _and_ in Baker."

"So let's go visit Fest."

It was tempting. But the thought of John Rot and his goons made her want to stay iles away from the cluster of cities.

"All those stairs...?" She said, trying to deter his boyish enthusiasm.

"I told you–that's the back door. The lab connects the three cities."

Meryl hesitated, worried about being spotted in the lovely little city.

As if he could tell what she was thinking, Vash added. "C'mon, we'll disguise you."

* * *

Meryl felt uncomfortably exposed in the saloon, though this wasn't the sort of place the Desperados favored. She was dressed in her tight skirt and Vash's baggy dress shirt, the fedora from Vash's escape snugged over her head. She tugged the fedora down to cover her face, effectively cutting off her line of sight. She pushed it up again, unable to tell which was worse: feeling undisguised or not being able to see. In the end, she sighed and took the hat off altogether, shaking out her dark hair.

"How do you do this?" She moaned. Paranoia was eating her up inside.

"Do what?" Vash managed around a mouthful of doughnut. Meryl cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Didn't your mother teach you to chew with your mother closed?" She chided, brushing crumbs from his shirt.

He gave her a lopsided grin. "I knew you couldn't resist my charm."

Meryl buried her head in her hands, wanting nothing more than to be back in the gloomy,

isolated lab. The waiter came and she ordered a drink to take the edge off. They had chosen this particular café because it was ten minutes to midnight, and no one else was open. The café itself wasn't bad. Just a little shoddy. It was the company that bothered her: she would have preferred it if the entire room was empty. A makeshift stage had been constructed from painted plywood and Sheetrock at the far end of the room. A lousy western band was playing live–some sort of country song. She blocked it out.

Vash, on the other hand, didn't seem nervous in the slightest. He was talking animatedly about something or another, pausing to wolf down doughnuts.

"Meryl!" Vash shrieked loudly. "Don't look now! Desperados!"

Meryl's head shot up and she glanced around so quickly she got whiplash. Everyone in the diner had stopped to look at them, but she couldn't see any gangsters around.

"_Where!_"

Vash grinned. "Had you."

Meryl's cheeks flushed scarlet and she gave him a savage kick under the table. "You know, $$60 billion is sounding _awfully_ tempting right now," she hissed.

"Ow," Vash protested.

Face burning, Meryl slid out of the booth and made a beeline for the exit, ignoring Vash's cries to wait.

Outside, the air was not as heavy or suffocating. Instead it carried the cool, refreshing scent of summer. Nighttime in Fest was a beautiful thing: Fires had been lit in the cast iron streetlights, giving the city a romantic and oddly exotic touch. The streets were made of herringbone brick that seemed to fairly dance in the flickering glow of the flames. Besides the candles, the stars were the only source of light, and they cast a silvery hue over the boulevard. It was past midnight, and the streets were abandoned except for a group of street musicians playing on the corner: a blues song.

"Meryl! Hey, wait up!" Meryl sped up, hoping she could somehow ignore him.

"You forgot your fedora," he said with a goofy smile, placing the hat on her head.

"Oh." Was all she could think to say.

Vash noticed the musicians, pulled a face at the song they were playing. He tossed a bill into their donations basket, murmured something in the Cellist's ear. Without breaking, the band fell into an old tune that Meryl's grandmother had sung her to sleep with:

_So...on the first night a pebble falls to earth from somewhere_

_So...on the second night the pebble's children join hands and sketch a waltz._

_Sound Life_

She smiled at the memory. Vash seemed to note the change, because he bowed playfully and offered his hand to her.

"Care to dance?"

Meryl blushed and glanced around. It was too late to back down–she'd already told him during their game of "hangman" that she loved to dance when no one was around...Reluctantly, she took his hand and followed his lead into a ballroom waltz. The soles of her shoes clacked loudly against the brick drive. The only other sounds were the resonant notes of the beautiful old song that echoed hauntingly from the alleys. She was so focused on not tripping over her feet that she didn't hear Vash singing at first.

"So...on the fourth night the children of the wave spray shore. Sound life." He flashed another lopsided grin, and she couldn't help laughing. The atmosphere was so easy out here, away from the crowds and the harsh artificial lights.

_So...on the fifth night those shards strike the earth over and over._

_So...on the sixth night those signals bring the travelers together._

_Sound Life._

_So...on the seventh night, a weightless ship races to the sky._

"So..." Meryl began, trying to remember the words to the song. "On the eighth morning a song from somewhere reaches my ears. Sound Life."

Vash gave her a curious look.

_Well then, a song that has recorded everything echoes to the new sky._

_Sound Life._

_Sound Life._

The music stopped, and Meryl leaned against a streetlight, fanning her face with the fedora. "My grandmother used to sing it each night," Meryl said absently.

Vash's face registered surprise. "Your grandmother..." her repeated thoughtfully.

Meryl nodded, though he couldn't see her: his eyes were fixed on the stars above and he actually seemed serious for a moment. He whispered something Meryl didn't catch.

"Pardon?" She asked.

Vash looked back at her; at her sable hair and fiery eyes. "I said...are you ready to go back to our gloomy, isolated lab?"


	8. Sacrifices, pt 1

A/N:It took awhile to update, I know. I got into an accident in Chemistry class that sliced my hand up pretty bad. I couldn't type for a couple of days, and then I had a brain freeze. As an apology, here's "Sacrifices, pt. 1" and it's a full five pages long! (pitiful, I know :)

Just some words to my reviewers: Pailay, hun, you and Leviathon's Son are my best reviewers. You've both reviewed 6 out of 7 chapters. Thanks guys! "Wanted" would have guttered and died without you two, so I owe you alot.  
Aine of Knockaine: I've just finished "Forever Mine". o.O I was up until 3 in the morning finishing it and was COMPLETELY emotional by chapter 35 (of course, that might have been the product of 36 hours without sleep). It was so wonderful--one of the best in in my opinion. It's on my favorite stories list. Thanks for reviewing--it meant alot to me.  
Marie Ward: You've been another great reviewer. Your comments really kept me going. Puppiish, Parrhasis, Saraki, SBcowgirlunkie, Ashari, ibogal, EmpressGalaxia, Shattrdheart, Peridot 3783, Tokimaster, and LilySama--I can't thank you all enough. Please review again :)

* * *

Meryl was spinning idly in one of the computer chairs. She watched the room flash by: Door, computers, wall, wall, more computers, door, Vash. She dragged a foot along the floor, slowly stopping the chair. _So why does the room still seem like it's spinning,_ she wondered, clutching at her nauseous stomach. "What do you want?" She asked Vash.

"I'm bored." Whined Vash.

Meryl rolled her eyes. "And?"

"I thought we could talk."

"About what?"

"About how we're getting out of here."

Meryl had thought about "getting out of here" since they had arrived, and their prospects looked grim. Their water was supplied by the plant, but they were quickly running out of food. Together, they only had a few meager double dollars left; not enough to last them more than a day or two, and certainly not enough to buy them a ticket on the sand steamer that was due in less than a month. The thomas was still hanging in there, though it hadn't eaten for days. She was bound and determined to return the beast to Mr. Harris someday: no reason in adding thievery to her sins.

"What do you suggest," she asked warily.

Vash blinked back at her. "I don't know. I thought for sure you'd have a plan."

Meryl sighed and rose, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. She was halfway to the door, when Vash's voice drifted from behind her.

"Hey, where're you going?"

"On a walk," she mumbled.

The brightly lit, abandoned halls of the lab were eery, reflected Meryl, not for the first time. There was something about the place that gave her the chills. She walked briskly through the labyrinth, the smart _click _of her heels rebounding in the broad space. She twisted around, glancing over her shoulder. For a moment, it had sounded like someone was following her, but it must have been her echo.

Meryl halted, trying to get her bearings. She didn't think she'd been this way before, but it was hard to tell: all the hallways were identical. She took a left, then a hard right and found herself in familiar settings: she was back in the hallway that led to the cave. She paused. This was the first time she'd been here since she and Vash had found the lab. The thomas was still up in the cave, Meryl remembered with a twinge of guilt. It could stay alive for awhile yet, but she _did_ feel sorry for it. She hoped it hadn't headed blindly into the desert.

Just as Meryl was ready to head back to the computer room and Vash, she froze. Was she imagining things? _Couldn't be..._she thought. She waited patiently, not moving, hardly breathing. A minute became five minutes, which quickly turned into fifteen, and Meryl's muscles began to tense from their rigid, unmoving positions. Still the silence stretched on. Finally, Meryl allowed herself to relax. _I'm just stressed. It's the product of a wired mind,_ she thought. She took one step, then heard it again. Voices. Her heart began to pound painfully in her chest, and she walked slowly, quietly, to the entrance to the cave, carefully remaining out of sight.

There was gruff laughter, the loud clank of heavy feet on the staircase. Then she heard it: the hoarse, low, insidious voice that could only belong to John Rot.

"She's here boys. We've got her cornered. That bitch'll pay for what she did to Red Jenkins."

They were still a ways away, but drawing nearer by the minute. She could hear, now, someone mutter: "...make her pay." More voices joined in, until it became a chant. "Make her pay, make her pay, make her pay!"

Meryl pushed off from the wall, stumbling into the hallway. She made her way as quickly as she could to the Plant room, pushed through the door. She needed to find Vash. She clambered down the ladder, heedless to caution, and ran across the vast room.

"Vash!" She hissed, jogging through the catacombs, throwing doors open. "Vash?"

"What?" Said a familiar voice behind her. She turned around, panicky. Vash's eyebrows were knit in concern. "What?" He repeated pressingly.

"They're here." She whispered.

"Who's here?" He asked, his voice harder, more urgent.

"The Desperados."

Vash's eyes widened. If she weren't sick with fear, Meryl would have laughed. He looked like a little boy, hair sticking in every direction, lips slightly parted. "What!"

"Shh!" She hissed, grabbing his arm. "The Desperados are in the cave. They must have found the back door."

"How far away do you think they are?"

"I don't know. Ten minutes, maybe?"

Vash began to pull her down a passageway that eventually led to Fest.

"What are you doing?" Meryl asked, planting her feet, refusing to go further.

Vash's previous good humor was melting away. She could see his brow furrow, his lips tighten into a bloodless line. There was a coldness in his eyes that she'd never seen before, but she recognized it all the same. This was Vash the Stampede. The humanoid typhoon. The outlaw.

"We're leaving," he said. His voice was calm, but firm, and Meryl thought she could detect the trace of a threat beneath them. Meryl felt her blood begin to boil. She wrenched herself from Vash's grasp.

"Don't you _dare _tell me what to do." She said hotly. She raised her gaze to meet his own, challenging him. Meryl knew it was rash to play chicken with a known criminal, but she didn't give a damn. She was dangerous too.

Without warning, Vash lifted her from the ground and continued down the passageway. A few feet down, surprise wore out and anger set in. Meryl thrashed violently. "Who the hell do you think you are?" She spat.

Vash didn't answer and Meryl twisted in his arms, slamming the heel of her palm into his sternum. Startled, Vash dropped her and she picked herself off the floor, face glowing.

The gunman took a step forward, but Meryl scrambled back, pointing a forefinger at him in silent warning. "Don't touch me," she panted.

"Please, Meryl!" Vash begged, and the small insurance girl was taken aback by the desperation in his voice.

"What do you want, Vash? To leave, _huh_? So we can be stalked the rest of our lives?" She shook her head. "I can't do this anymore. I'm making my stand, here, today. You don't have to–this is _my _battle."

There was a clamor as the Desperados reached the back door to the lab. An awed murmue rippled through the gang. Meryl turned and raced to the plant room, Vash at her heels. When she had reached plant's holding sphere, he gripped her shoulder from behind. "Please reconsider." He said softly.

Meryl didn't deign to look back at him when she replied. "What about the plant? If we leave now, they'll find her. There's no telling what they'd do to her. She could die."

She could tell her words were having the desired effect. Vash couldn't leave now–not with a life on the line.

"There's no way to save everyone today. Someone is going to die," Vash said, his voice pained.

"You're a legendary gunman for God's sake! Why are you always running away?" She yelled, turning to face him.

"I _can't_ take a life," he said, frustrated. "She wouldn't like it."

_"She"?_ Meryl wondered. She shook her head, forcing herself to let it go. There were more demanding issues at hand.

"I promise I won't aim to kill," she said quietly.

"Are you stupid!" Vash fairly roared. "This far below ground, they'd bleed to death before a doctor could reach them!"

Meryl didn't know how to reply. If she left, John Rot would kill the plant. If she stayed and didn't fight, the Desperados would kill her _and _the plant. If she stayed and fought, she would kill some of the gangsters and they would kill her and the plant. The outcomes were bleak.

"Is there any way at all to get the plant out of there?" She asked, waving at the sphere.

"Maybe–with a month's worth of research."

"We don't _have _a month," said Meryl tersely. There would be a massacre today, she was sure. Unless...yes, there was a way. Her stomach flipped at the thought. She didn't like it, but it would save everybody. Well, almost everybody. Meryl took her gun from the holster, checked it.

"What are you doing?" Asked Vash.

Meryl was silent. She crossed the room and climbed the ladder. As she reached the catwalk, Vash suddenly became animated again. He started after her.

Meryl cocked the gun and aimed it at the Stampede's chest. "Don't," she advised. "I won't even think twice." The threat was completely hollow, but she was pleased that she'd managed to keep her voice steady. Vash obviously believed her, because he stopped and looked at her in bewilderment.

Moving swiftly, Meryl laid her firearm on the catwalk–she wouldn't need it–and edged the door open to face the Desperados.

* * *

John Rot was at a loss. There were more doors than he'd expected. The little brat could be anywhere. The Desperados could sense his indecision. They'd begun to shuffle impatiently. They wanted action; he needed to do something. 

Suddenly there was movement ahead of them. The door edged open, and there was the girl. That waitress. Meryl.

The girl looked up, shock registering on her features. She took a step back, but it was too late.

"Well, well, well," said Rot, hiding his relief. He smiled wickedly. "Look who's here, boys."

The gang began to holler and stamp. Rot's grin widened at their enthusiasm. Rot raised his gun, pointed it at the waitress. The girl's mouth opened slightly in fear. She was trembling.

Something was nagging him, though. There was something wrong here that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was her eyes, he realized. They showed no fear. No fear at all. _Oh, well_, thought Rot, taking careful aim. His finger tightened on the trigger.

A gunshot suddenly shattered the silence.


	9. Sacrifices, pt 2

A/N: Good news everyone! My Trigun FINALLY came in! See, it's been a year since I last saw Trigun and I was working from memory before now. Some of you noticed slip-ups in the storyline--like how Meryl knew Vash was a plant. Hopefully there will be no more of those.  
Iactually have Pailay to thank for this chapter. I was kind of at a loss until I read her review; then I was like..."hey, that's not a bad idea." So, kudos to you, Pailay!

Creature of the Night and Cywellen: Thanks for the reviews! It's so nice to feel loved... :)  
ibogal: I was so flattered by your review that I decided to work on a new chapter instead of pay attention in Chemistry. (Who needs Chem anyway?) Thank you SO much.  
Angel: heh, yeah. You're right: Meryl wasn't supposed to know Vash was a plant. That was completely my mistake.  
Peridot3783: My hand's pretty much healed by now (_finally_) and I wanted to say thanks for being a regular reviewer. I'm not very self-motivated, and I'd be updating once a month w/o you.  
Aine of Knockaine: Once again, thanks for taking the time to review! I'm so in awe of your talent...o.o  
Pailay: I really owe you a debt of gratitude for your review. It sparked the idea for this chapter. Also,and **this is****FAIRLY IMPORTANT**: you asked "But why would the gang members bother killing a Plant? Plant life (har har) and rights aside, it'd be like walking into a power plant and plugging a generator for no apparent reason." Excellent question! Here are three possible answers: 1.) Because John Rot and his goons are deranged, loopy SOBs who get their ya-yas out by plugging generators; 2.) Because plugging generators is alot funner than it sounds and we should all try it more often; and 3.) Because Rot might not be planning on _shooting _the plant so much as exhausting her powers to line his own pocket without regards to her health and welfare.

Thanks for taking time to review--it means alot to me, and it's more useful than I imagined! I'm not above taking advice :P Y'all are keeping me on my toes...

* * *

Vash stood rooted to the spot. He could feel the gears of his brain whirring, but he couldn't make any sense of the situation. Did Meryl just threaten him? Yes, and he was sure she'd meant it, too. The conviction in her voice, that flash in her eyes, were enough to convince him that she would have shot him in an instant.

It wasn't fear that had frozen him in his tracks; it was shock. There was a sudden commotion in the entranceway and Vash shook himself. _What the hell was she thinking? _Vash cursed quietly, crossing the room in a few quick strides. He was reaching for the ladder bolted to the catwalk when the deafening crack of a fired pistol exploded in the unnatural silence, echoing like thunder in the lab. Vash's heart leapt to his throat and his hand tightened around the metal rung until his knuckles were white and bloodless. Heart pounding in his ears, he vaulted into action, shinnying up the ladder and onto the catwalk. Then he saw the glint of Meryl's firearm where she had left it.

She hadn't fired the shot. _"There's no way to save everyone. Someone is going to die today."_

A cold fear gripped at the gunman, numbing his senses. His brow creased and he set his jaw. With a snarl, Vash threw open the door and stepped inside the entryway in a single fluid motion, clearing the room and pointing his gun at...no one. They were gone.

"Dammit!" Vash wailed, spinning around in a crazed semicircle. A splash of color caught his eye and he leaned in closer for a better look. Blood. A small spray of blood tainted the otherwise pristine white walls.

He looked around wildly, but the hallway was as empty as he thought it was. "No body. They took the body," Vash muttered thickly. "Why'd they take the body. Why–why..."

He knew the answer to the puzzle could be found if he sat down and thought it through; but somehow he couldn't get his mind to _focus_. The normally sharp concentration of his brain felt unnaturally fuzzy.

"Dammit," he whispered again. There was a painful lump in his throat and it hurt to speak.

Then it clicked. Meryl was alive.

What was it Meryl had said to him, about the night she ran away? His mind pulled at the fragment of a conversation they had shared weeks ago:

_Meryl was lost in the recesses of her mind again_. _She was sitting, staring–not at the wall, but through it. Vash said her name softly, but she didn't respond._

_"Hey Insurance girl!" He said sharply. That was guaranteed to get a reaction out of her. Meryl turned her stormy eyes on him threateningly. _

_"What was that?"_

_"Uh...I mean, Ö merciful and divine Majesty."_

_"Better."_

_"What are you thinking?"_

_"I'm thinking of how annoying you can be. Why don't you go bug the plant?"_

_"No, I mean before. What were you thinking of?"_

_Aware that Vash wouldn't let it go, Meryl gave a resigned sigh. "I was thinking about the night I killed Red Jenkins."_

_Vash cringed at her cavalier attitude, though he knew it was a front. "Yeah?" He prompted._

_Meryl looked at him with even measures of curiosity and distrust. "Why do you care?"_

_Vash searched for a reason. He knew that carrying this around on her conscience was slowly eating her up inside. He didn't think she'd take it well if he suggested she might need help, however. She didn't strike him as the dependent type. "It might be important." He said lamely. _

_Meryl didn't say anything for a long time. A very long time. Vash was trying to think of a way to tactfully bring up the subject again when she spoke. _

_"I shot him. I didn't have a reason to, Vash." Tears were welling in her eyes and she wiped them away fiercely. To cry was to show weakness. Meryl Stryfe did not cry._

_Vash couldn't find any words to comfort her with, and he hated himself for it. Instead he waited._

_"You should have seen their faces. It was horrible. That uncomprehending look in their eyes. I don't care if he was a bastard; he didn't deserve to die, Vash!" She said, her voice strangled._

_"What did they do?" Vash asked gently._

_Meryl flinched at the memory. "They were going to shoot at first. If they had, I'd be dead. I _should _be dead. Then Rot stopped them."_

_"Rot–John Rot!" Vash stammered bluntly. From what she'd told him, Rot was the last person Vash would expect mercy from._

_"Yeah. He said–he said 'let's have a little fun first.'"_

Vash jolted out of his reverie, a sick feeling twisting in his gut. So that was why they hadn't killed her yet. They were going to make her pay–nice and slow. Vash spun to face the exit into the cave, preparing himself to face the gangsters. Then he stopped. He couldn't be rash about this. Rashness would get them both killed. The Desperados had left through the cave, he was sure. They had what they wanted, and they didn't know about the other exits. He couldn't confront them now. They were still too far below ground, dammit. He didn't want to risk any deaths–and Rot would be sure to kill Meryl if he thought Vash was trying to rescue her. Besides there was something else nagging at him. Meryl had gone in unarmed–she didn't want a battle. She had wanted a way to save them all. The only way she could do that was by sacrificing herself.

Meryl had guessed that once they had what they wanted, the men would leave. They had no reason to stick around in some God-forsaken underground cavern after all. They didn't know about Vash. By laying down her life, she was allowing Vash to live. He didn't want to make her sacrifice a vain one by rushing out half-cocked and getting shot.

"John Rot." Vash said the name like he might have said a swear word. Then he turned from the door. He knew where they were headed: October. He'd be waiting.

* * *

It was a haggard but pleased band of Desperados that returned to the Warehouse at sunset. The desolate warehouse in October had been their residence since they "moved" into the city. Cots, sleeping bags, and drained bottles of beer cluttered the floor.

"The boys" were buzzing with excitement over their victory. As well they should, reflected Rot smugly. They had been searching for the damned girl for two months. There was a grunt of pain as Sid threw the waitress to the ground, and Rot laughed. He had made sure that the bullet would bury itself deep in Meryl's shoulder–it was painful, but nonlethal. The Desperados' thirst for revenge had festered and increased during their painstaking hunt. Now they didn't want to merely kill the girl: they wanted to torture her to death.

"Let this serve as an example of what happens to those who cross the Desperados," he said disdainfully, kicking her violently in her wounded side.

The girl bit her lip until it bled, not giving him the satisfaction of a moan. Her breath came quick and shallow as she forced herself into a sitting position, bracing her back against the concrete wall. Rot, frustrated by her non-responsiveness, gave her another kick, smiling as she groaned. Her eyelashes fluttered as she tried to stay conscious and lost the battle.

"Sleep well, boys," Rot said, facing the gang. "Tomorrow, she'll pay. She will pay."

* * *

Vash was perched on a loft, hidden behind two boxes of long-forgotten cargo from when the warehouse was still in use. Getting to October had been simple. Finding the hangout of the Desperados had been considerably more difficult. Vash had tried pressing bartenders, waiters–even the mayor–for information. No one seemed to know much of anything about them, and those who _did _know something didn't want to talk about it. Vash had finally threatened the Sheriff to squeeze out the location of their hangout. He had never intended to act on his threat, but it had gotten the job done.

Now Vash was sitting, cramped, in the shadows of the rafters. His back was bent into an unhealthy U-shape and he was losing the feeling in his legs, but these were the least of his concerns. He watched with restrained silence as the Desperados crowded and shoved through the narrow door, tumbling in almost drunkenly. Vash waited with a growing sense of unease as well-muscled men continued to swarm into the old warehouse. Meryl was nowhere to be seen.

Maybe they had killed her on the way up. Maybe she had bled to death. Vash waited with waning hope, until a thick, stout tanling trickled in behind the others, a small inert form slung over his shoulder. Vash winced as the man dropped Meryl to the ground roughly. He could hear crude laughter, and watched as a lean, sinister-looking man approached her. He said something in a voice made husky by too much tobacco; Vash couldn't quite make out the words. Without warning, the man lashed out at the insurance girl, catching her in the shoulder. He could see her muscles tense in response. Meryl remained still for a few minutes–just long enough to make Vash nervous–then forced herself to sit up against the wall. Rot kicked her again, and this time he could hear a sharp intake of pain. _This must be John Rot, _Vash thought to himself.

Vash heard Rot's sickly voice again and strained to listen to the words... "Tomorrow, she'll pay. She will pay."

Vash hadn't moved throughout the exchange. He remained as still and taciturn as a gargoyle, waiting, waiting...

_Patience is the key here_, he told himself. _Patience means everything.

* * *

_

Rot awoke disconcerted. He hadn't been in the Warehouses for many weeks. Instead, he and the majority of the Desperados had been hiking through the desert, blistering hot in the daytime and frigidly cold at night. They hadn't been able to follow her before the storm, and the time they'd lost while waiting out the tempest had covered her tracks completely. It was by sheer luck and persistence that, two months later, they'd found a thomas wandering aimlessly in the desert and had followed its tracks to the small cave. It was over now, though. They had the girl.

Rot pushed himself up from the dingy, stained cot where he'd fallen asleep and picked his way across slumbering men to the girl. She was still there. Her lovely face was screwed into an expression of pain, and her normally glossy black hair fell, limp with perspiration, across her tightly-closed eyes.

"You awake, girl?" No response.

"Hey!" Rot said gruffly, leaning in "I said–". Suddenly the girl butted her head forward, catching him in the forehead. There was a crack as their skulls met, and Rot fell backward.

"I _heard _what you said, asshole," she seethed. Her teeth were clenched in pain from the movement, however, and perspiration beaded her brow.

"Bitch! What did you call me?" He spluttered, shaking with ill-contained rage. He tore his gun from its holster, clicked the safety off and shoved the muzzle beneath her chin.

"Asshole," Meryl panted, her steel-colored eyes holding his own in a staring contest.

Rot was feeling uncertain again; this was not how a terrified prisoner should behave. She acted as though _she _was the one in control of the situation.

Rot returned the gun to his holster. "There's no way you're getting off that easily. Your death will be a slow, painful one. We'll flay the skin off your bones; cut your fingers off one by one." His talk was empty now. He was trying his damnedest to frighten her. "Then we'll hunt down your family, your friends." Finally, something akin to horror flickered across her face. It was gone in a second, but Rot had seen it. He laughed harshly. "Don't like that, do you?"

"Rise and shine, boys!" He called gleefully to the Desperados. Most were already awake, jarred from their sleep by Rot's explosion. They crowded around, jostling, shoving and cussing. In seconds the warehouse was transformed from sleepy quiet to belligerent racket.

"You want revenge?" Roared Rot.

"_Yeah_!" Came the collective answer.

"Alright then," Rot said, reaching for his knife. Something blurred past in his peripheral vision and he turned just in time to see a slender, red-clad man land, catlike, on the dirt floor. An eery quiet descended over the gathering as the young man stood gracefully, long trench coat rustling. No one dared breathe a word.

The man's hair glintedlikespun gold in the early morning light. The sunlight flashed off yellow sunglasses, making them glow like burnished topaz. His features were set, hard and cold.

"Who the hell are you?" Rot asked, finding his voice. But he'd already guessed the answer.

The blond slowly took off the glasses and raised his eyes to meet Rot's gaze. Rot felt a momentary seize of panic: his aqua eyes looked icy and predatory.

"My name is Vash the Stampede." He said in a low, quiet voice that immediately harnessed the attention of every man there.

Rot licked his lips nervously. He'd heard legends about this man–legends that surely couldn't be true. There were stories how he had destroyed July in a single night. Turned it into a hell on earth. If he was coming to join the Desperados, they'd never had a bigger break. And yet, at the same time, $$60 billion double dollars was just an arm's length away.

Hushed conversations broke out amongst the Desperados.

"Vash the Stampede..."

...Lost July, he's the guy!"

"Slaughtered thousands!"

"What does he want with us?"

"Where'd he come from? It's like..."

"Dropped out of nowhere! I'm telling..."

"_They say he's more demon than man_."

Rot sensed he was losing control. He couldn't allow fear to set in–they had Vash outnumbered, two hundred to one. He allowed himself to imagine what it would feel like to be sixty billion double dollars richer anddecided he'd like it very much. Very much indeed. "What did you come for, Vash the Stampede? If that _is_ who you are?" He finally asked.

The legendary gunman's eyes pierced Rot, and the Desperado felt a sudden stab of fear.

"I've come to challenge you to a showdown."


	10. Showdown

A/N: Here's the showdown. I hope I didn't let you down--it's a little short, but writing it has been a good way of getting my mind off of finals :\...i hate chem...  
Peridot3783: Thank you, Peridot! I like responding to your reviews--I like to thank y'all whenever I get the chance: You deserve it! I owe so much to all "Wanted"'s reviewers, especially those who take the time to review every chapter.  
Pailay: Thanks! I've been aiming for a fic that makes Meryl independent w/o being OOC. It's nice to hear things like that.  
Aine of Knockaine: Thank you, as usual. I hope you enjoy this next chapter; I look forward to your comments--they're so regular! It's comforting to have as good a reviewer as you reading "Wanted".  
My Name is R.C: Hey, R.C. Thanks for reviewing, and I'm glad you've enjoyed the story so far. I'm much obliged! btw--I read your profile. You sound alot like me ;) I absolutely hate Chemistry, but I've only got three more days of it left! and the people rejoiced  
siNicaLLY diSTuRbEd: Of course I'm going to tell you what happens--you know where I live. And Zazie and Midvalley won't be making an appearance, but Milly makes a short one in the last chapter.

* * *

Rot's ears were ringing. He wondered if he'd heard correctly. "Challenge me to a showdown?" He said confusedly.

Vash gave a barely perceptible nod.

Rot started to decline, but then his eyes wandered over the two-hundred brawny thugs that were tensed on the sidelines. If they sensed fear they would turn on him like wolves. His lips trembled as he asked: "What are the rules of engagement?"

"Twenty paces apart. We fire on the count of three. If you win the draw, you can claim the $$60 billion double dollar bounty."

"And if I lose?"

"I take your place as the leader of the Desperados."

There was a an intake of breath from a few of the thieves, and grunts of surprise. Rot's eyebrows rose astonishment. He had to accept–the gang was watching him, waiting for his reaction. His eyes narrowed; he could almost see that $$60 billion double dollars--and _damn _it looked nice.

"Alright, Vash the Stampede. A duel to the death."

The gunman had already started for the door when he called back: "Meet me at noon by the city spring."

"My followers will be attending, Vash!" Rot yelled after him.

Vash threw a wave over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. "Until noon."

* * *

Rot's nerves had been on edge since morning. The whole setup felt vaguely surreal as he tried–once again–to wrap his head around his encounter with Vash. He was going to fight a gunman–a legendary gunman. _I must be losing my mind_, he thought desperately. Surely $$60 billion double dollars couldn't be worth this. If he was smart, he would cut and run right now. The Desperados would be after him. Maybe they'd kill him. But, God, he didn't want to face that man, Vash.

The twin suns were nearly at their zenith in the sky.

"Uh, Boss?"

Rot's head snapped up, dampened hair sticking to his clammy brow. "What?" He growled.

"It's almost noon." The Desperado continued. Something in Rot's mind came dangerously close to snapping. _Just calm down and focus. Focus. You can win this. You WILL win this, if you keep your mind clear. _Rot took a few deep breaths, then rose.

"Alright, boys," he said, shocked to hear that his voice had lost its cultivated coldness. Instead of sounding like a rough, hardened criminal he sounded...afraid. "It's time to go."

The short walk to the city spring was in silence. The denizens of October were locked inside their homes, shades drawn. The gangsters didn't utter a word, but marched in silence behind him. It felt to Rot as though the pressure on him was intensifying until he couldn't breathe–until he could hardly stagger under its weight.

As the spring resolved before them, Rot could make out the tall, lissom gunman leaning casually against a house. A breeze stirred his white dress shirt. The man looked up at him and smiled. "Mr. John Rot. I thought you were a no-go for a moment."

Rot couldn't find his tongue. Already, the suns were beating down, uncomfortably hot. Sticky sweat ran down his back, gluing his shirt to his skin. His fingers felt unnaturally thick and clumsy, and he flexed them.

"Put down your weapons." Vash addressed the gang sharply. "This is a gunfight for the leadership of the Desperados. It will be conducted with honor."

There was a commotion as the Desperados–used to obeying orders–threw down their guns and pocketed their bullets. Metallic clanks and snaps sounded crisply in the afternoon air.

"Are you ready?" Asked Vash quietly.

Rot's mind, unusually slow, took a moment to process Vash's question. He grunted in response.

"All right then," said the blond curtly, checking to make sure his gun was loaded. Rot tried not to stare at the huge, gleaming weapon. Vash held the gun out at an arm's length. Rot looked from the firearm to Vash, then back again, before he raised his own sidearm and touched the barrel to the gunman's.

"Twenty paces." The legend reminded him. Rot turned and took twenty long, hesitant steps, counting under his breath. _One, two, three..._the gangsters moved automatically out of his way; _nine, ten, eleven, twelve..._the suns only seemed to grow larger and warmer in the sky, until Rot's was sure his brain was cooking in his skull; _eighteen, nineteen, twenty._ He stopped, steeling himself, before spinning to face the humanoid typhoon.

Rot watched Vash's lips move as he mouthed a word; he was too far away to be heard, but Rot knew what he had said anyway: fire.

The leader of the Desperados rolled to the side out of instinct, dirt exploding to his right as a bullet buried itself in the ground beside him. He shot wildly, not bothering to aim, then threw himself to the left. A bullet whizzed by, nicking his ear. Rot clutched the wound as hot blood began to leak from the graze. He glanced up, gauging his angle and distance, before squeezing off another two bullets. The shots went barreling past Vash, and Rot lurched to his feet for a better vantage point. He needed to outsmart his opponent.

The Desperado fired two shots, one slightly left of the outlaw, the other slightly right. To his surprise, the man somersaulted clean over both rounds and landed lightly on his feet. Rot dove behind a building to catch his breath. He reloaded his gun with shaking hands. _Just have to last a little bit longer..._he thought. He was beginning to feel lightheaded, though whether it was from the heat or the shot to his ear, he wasn't sure. He slammed the bullets in and whipped around the corner of the house, firing blindly.

"Aah!" He cried in surprise as the legendary gunman returned fire. A bullet skimmed his arm, so close to the skin that he could feel the heat of the metal searing his flesh. There was a crack of gunfire, the acrid smell of gunsmoke, and Rot felt a sudden stinging in his leg. He was hit–another graze. The "legendary gunman"'s aim was awfully lousy Rot reflected sourly. He charged forward with a battle cry, fired his gun three times. The Humanoid Typhoon jerked back and fell to the ground, motionless. Was it over already? Rot had expected more of a fight; maybe he had underestimated his own skill. Multi-billionaire John Rot, the slayer of Gunsmoke's notorious Humanoid Typhoon. It made for a pretty headline Rot thought smugly. He approached the gunman cautiously and leaned forward.

Suddenly the blond man kicked out, knocking Rot's feet from underneath him; Vash had been feigning. Rot fell hard and was up in an instant. Vash was already hurrying backward, away from Rot, shaking dust from his revolver. _Yes, that's right, _thought Rot, _run away. _He raised his piece and fired.

There was a _ping! _of metal against metal, and Vash's gun flew out of his hands. "All...I have to...do..." Rot grunted to himself, "is...finish him." He had the outlaw cornered; he was weaponless.

Rot slowed his breathing and aimed for the fatal shot. He squeezed the trigger, listening for Vash's cry and the thud of the falling body. There was nothing. He looked up wonderingly, but the gunman hadn't moved. _How did I miss at this close range?_ He wondered. Oh well–he had Vash now. Rot raised the gun, spying through the gun's sight. There was a quick blur of motion, almost faster than Rot could follow, and Vash was beside him. The blonde lashed out, twisting Rot's colt from his grasp and flinging it away. An uppercut caught the gangster off-balance. He dropped to the sand, spat out blood. Vash was already dashing for his weapon, and Rot crawled toward his own firearm. Vash was scooping his gun from the sand when Rot aimed his sidearm and pulled the trigger.

_Click_. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, and Rot's eyes widened. There was another blur and Rot felt the muzzle of Vash's weapon, still hot, shoved against his temple.

"Checkmate." He said cheerfully.

_What the hell? _Thought the gangster. "There's no way you could have moved that fast!" He puffed, trembling violently. How had this happened? Two heartbeats ago, he'd had the upper hand. Unwilling to accept defeat, Rot slipped his hand into his sleeve and withdrew his hunting knife. The blade arced through the air, flashing in the sunlight, and sliced into the outlaw's left arm. At least, it should have. Instead there was the clang of metal meeting metal, and the knife clattered from Rot's grasp. "Wha...what?" Cried Rot, tearing away Vash's shirt to expose a gleaming metal arm. "It's prosthetic," he said unbelievingly.

"Sorry," said the blond with a goofy grin.

Rot screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the deafening gunshot, the pain, the blackness. It never came. He opened his eyes to see Vash, gun still pointed point-blank. "Just finish it quickly." He pleaded.

To his surprise, his adversary holstered his gun and offered his hand.

"What are you doing?" Asked John Rot. "It was to the death–if I had won, I'd have killed you in an instant!"

"Actually," said the gunman, slipping on his topaz sunglasses. "I hate blood. Just the very sight of it makes me feel a little faint."

Rot brain was buzzing. Was he being made fun of? "What...are you doing?" He repeated.

Vash cocked an eyebrow. "Surely you don't _want _me to kill you?"

"N-no." Stammered Rot, accepting Vash's proffered hand. Vash hoisted him to his feet.

"Then get out of here," he said. "Start over. And if I hear a single rumor that John Rot has resurfaced, I'll come for you. I'll finish what we started here today. Understand?"

Rot nodded, began to retrieve his gun.

"Uh-uh," came The Stampede's mild warning. "Leave it." Rot, with his head held down, tried not to look at the angry faces of the Desperados as he made a hasty exit.

"Alright, boys!" Vash cried, mocking Rot's western twang. "I am the new leader of the Desperados. As of this moment, your undying allegiance is pledged to me. Unless someone else wants to challenge me?" He asked, pleased when none of the thugs met his challenge. "Okie doke. Have any of you heard of a town called Buigna?"

There a few submissive "no"s and several men shook their heads.

"It's a mining down in the middle of nowhere. Buigna is built on top of the biggest known gold vein in Gunsmoke, worth $$73 trillion double dollars or something like that."

The Desperados began to whoop and holler. There was an electric buzz in the air as the men looked around in blank astonishment.

"They're digging for it as we speak. They expect to strike gold in roughly 75 years."

The buzz promptly died away. "75 years?" Roared one man. "I'd be 107 years old by the time they struck gold!"

"Yup!" Said Vash cheerfully. "You're going to go to Buigna and wait until they strike the vein. Oh–and no moonlighting on the side. I'll see you in 75 years!"

The gang stared in disbelief as the tall, slender man walked away. A hot wind tousled his golden hair, making the tattered sleeve of his white shirt flutter behind him like a ghost. 200 pairs of eyes followed him as he slid on a pair of lambent sunglasses, flashed a roguish grin, and disappeared around a street corner. That humanoid typhoon. The outlaw. Gunsmoke's own Vash the Stampede.

* * *

Meryl struggled to stay awake in the cool warehouse. She was so tired; she couldn't tell if she was awake or asleep. The pain in her shoulder said she was awake, but she couldn't make any sense of her situation. She had seen Vash. He had been talking to Rot. Then she'd blacked out.

Meryl was still in the abandoned warehouse, but now it was _truly _abandoned. The Desperados were all gone. They'd left her alone in the huge, rancid building with nothing but the flies for company. It didn't make sense.

The door creaked open, its hinges groaning in protest. Someone–she couldn't see who–stood in the doorway, testing the door. He closed it, opened it, closed it again, until Meryl was sure the rasp of the unoiled hinge would drive her insane. Still, she bit her tongue, refusing to even glance at the newcomer.

"Wow. That could use some oil." A voice concluded brightly.

Meryl looked up finally, eyes wide with recognition. Vash smiled at her. "Hey, there, insurance girl."

"Where's Rot?" Asked Meryl, craning her head to see around Vash.

"He's gone," Vash said. "I don't think he'll visit October again soon. Rot was anasty thief, but really justa pushoverin the end." Meryl accepted this, sitting in silence for a moment.

"The Desperados?" She asked.

"They'll be busy for awhile," he replied, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

Meryl struggled to stand, then fell back gasping in pain. Immediately Vash was at her side. "Stop moving," he said sternly, frowning at her with mock severity.

"It's over?" Meryl managed between shallow breaths. "It's finally over?"

Vash smiled genuinely, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "Yes, Meryl. It's over."


	11. A Parting of Ways

A/N: Okay folksies. The fic is winding down now--only one more chapter left. (Maybe I'll do a sequel sometime). This chappie's short--nothing I could do to fix that. It just wouldn't stretch on long enough. :

* * *

The suns burned, bright and warm, in the cloudless blue sky. In the city of October, people were beginning to venture from their houses. The citizens had formed teams to collect the cans and cigarette butts littering the once-pristine streets of their city. Now their laughter made the beautiful, lazy day seem even more joyful. 

Meryl Stryfe was sitting in an al fresco diner, guarded from the sun's glare by a green-and-white striped awning. She twisted first one way, then another, tugging at her arm sling in a vain attempt to get comfortable. "What is _taking _so long?" She murmured to no one in particular. There was no venom in her voice, however–the day was much too cheerful for that. It felt great sitting in the open without worrying about being spotted.

A figure caught her eye at the edge of town–lanky, lean, athletic. Sunshine made the man's aureate hair glow a rich shade of gold. Dressed in his red greatcoat, he _almost _looked cool. Almost.

Meryl hid her smile by taking a sip of coffee as Vash spied her and gave an enthusiastic wave. He picked his way through the happily bustling avenue toward the little restaurant.

"Hi, insurance girl!" He beamed, dropping into a chair across from her. "How's the arm?"

"It's fine," Meryl said looking down at the sling. The Desperados had left the bullet in her shoulder; they hadn't expected her to survive, after all. The slug had been pinching a nerve painfully, butit hurt very littleafter the doctor had taken the bullet out. "You're leaving?" She said, trying to sound casual. Instead her voice caught in her throat, and she stared intently at her steaming cup of coffee, hoping he hadn't noticed.

"Yeah," said Vash, a little wistfully. "People will start to notice me pretty soon, like they did in Baker."

Meryl shivered, remembering what it had felt like to be hunted; to always be on guard; to be afraid all the time. "Where are you going to go?" She asked.

"I don't know, really. I guess I'll see where my life takes me. What about you?" He turned his deep turquoise eyes on her.

"I'm going to December." She said firmly.

"Why not stay in October?"

Meryl cast around for the right way to answer his question. It was true that October had changed for the better. Her eyes jumped from person to person: a little girl sitting on her daddy's lap, licking an ice cream cone; an elderly couple resting beside an ivy-covered wall, bony fingers interlocked; two best friends sharing a laugh by the watering trough. But somehow, October was different for her. It was a place of suffering–a place that she desperately wanted to forget. She couldn't stay here any longer, with the memory of Red Jenkins lingering at every boisterous bar. She couldn't wait to leave and start the next epoch of her life somewhere far, far away.

"I'm going to Bernardelli Insurance Co. headquarters. I got a job offer there." She said. It was the quickest and easiest explanation. She turned her stormy gaze on Vash. "You'll come visit me there?"

"I don't know," he said with an uneasy chuckle. "I caused a little disturbance there awhile back. Might still be hard feelings."

"Oh," said Meryl, disappointed.

"I think..." he started, then stopped. With reckless abandon, he blurted out: "I think our paths will cross again someday. I can feel it."

Thepair lapsed into silence. Well--semi-silence: Vash kept drumming his fingers nervously against their small, round table, until Meryl was ready to kill him herself.

_Rat-a-tatta-tatta-tat...tatta-ratta-rat-tat-tat...rattatatattattaratattat– _

Meryl clamped her good hand over Vash's, shooting him an icy glare. "Stop...that..._now." _She said, articulating her words dangerously.

"Sorry, Meryl," Vash winced with a self-deprecating smile that melted Meryl's frostiness. He didn't bother to take his hand from underneath hers, so they sat with their hands entwined under the shade of the awning, listening to the chatter around them.

"Can we go someplace quieter?" Asked Vash. Meryl looked at him in surprise. _Probably is uneasy with all these bounty hunters around, _she reminded herself.

"Where?"

Vash's stare settled on the sandy horizon. "I have to leave soon if I want to catch the bus out of here," he said absently. "We should go to the bus stop."

Meryl pushed herself up, slightly off-balance without the use of her left arm. She felt Vash's hand catch her arm, steady her. They wound their way to the bus stop with spare words; Meryl felt awkward for the first time since she'd met him. The bus stop was empty: the bus wasn't supposed to arrive for a good fifteen minutes, and no one was especially anxious to leave now that the Desperados were gone.

"Meryl...thanks." Vash said finally, fixing his eyes on the brilliant blue sky.

"What for?" Asked Meryl dispiritedly: saying good-bye was harder than she'd feared.

"I don't know," he said, still not looking at her.

"Well, you're welcome," she said.

The bus pulled up, brakes screeching. A cloud of dust settled around the dull, dirt-caked wheels. The doors hissed open, revealing a set of stairs.

Vash looked at her at last. Her hair, wearing slightly long, was disheveled–she kept running her fingers through it out of frustration. The fine, narrow scar that the bullet graze had left across her cheekbone looked less like a scar and more like a stubborn smudge of dirt, and her shirt was untucked, the rumpled sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

She'd never looked more beautiful.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot!" Vash cried suddenly. He reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a small derringer that Meryl recognized immediately.

"This...is _my _derringer," she breathed, taking the pistol gently in her hands. She rubbed her fingers along its sleek, time-worn curves, enjoying its familiar weight and coolness in her palm. "Where did you get this?" She asked, astonished, tearing her eyes from the gun.

"I bought it from the gunsmith after you left. From I've heard, this little derringer saved your life."

Meryl nodded. "My father gave it to me," she said, smiling at the memory of her father. _"You know I don't like guns," _he had said, _"but a girl as small and helpless as you needs something to even the odds. It's small, but it's power is sufficient."_

Vash cupped her chin in one hand, tracing the scar on her cheekbone withhis thumb.

"Vash, what are–" she started, but Vash leaned in and gently brushed his lips against hers. The kiss was so soft she wondered if she'd just imagined it. Just as she was about to haul off and deck him, he pulled her into a hug.

"Goodbye, Meryl," he whispered, genuine pain in his voice. He disentangled himself and left a furiously blushing Meryl rooted to the spot. She watched–unable to move or speak–as he paid his fare and took a seat, winking coltishly at her before the transport pulled away and left the small, dark-haired sylph in its wake.

A small tear slid down her cheek and she brushed it away. "Goodbye...Vash the Stampede."


	12. Epiloque

A/N: It's pretty important to keep in mind that this fic is AU, but it parallels the series. This is the last chapter in "Wanted". I'm going to miss writing it  
**Ibogal:** I think that's the nicest review I've ever gotten! It made me so emotional...but then again it's 12:30 AM right now... Thanks so much, and I hope you'll be as generous in the future.Since this is the last chapter, and the last time I'll get to say thanks (for awhile, at least) I want to stress howsupportive you've been.You rock, ibogal:)  
**Peacemaker:** Thanks! I wanted to let everyone know that I've started on the sequel, "Truth or Dare", which takes place after Trigun. I might not end up releasing the first chapter until late July--I like to have the first few chapters done before I start putting them up, in case I run into a problem.  
**Pailay:** Lol. I felt bad for going eleven chapters with minimal romance, so the last chapter was fluffed out to the max. I'm glad you like it! You've been another one of the greatest reviewers ever--_gives Pailay a cookie_--thanks a bunch, and see you around! (P.S. The line "It's small, but it's power is sufficient" was my favorite line from the manga too. )  
**Cinafran:** Thanks for reviewing. My computer does that to me all the time--sometimes I feel like "accidentally" throwing it out the window.  
**Aine of Knockaine:** Thanks for reviewing again; I'm glad you took the time to read my story, and I hope I'll see you again when I put up the sequel!  
**siNicaLLY diSTuRbEd:** You tell _any_one about this and I will haunt you to your grave. And yes, you are very special. I still haven't decided if that's a good thing. (haha..just kidding)  
**Valk:** This is the last chapter in the series. Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you enjoy it!  
**wolfgrl1423:** I'm glad that you liked it, and welcome to (I know what you mean, I didn't want to read fanfiction at first either. But Trigun is so good, and there are quite a few awesome fics on the website) See you around!  
Since this is the last chapter, I wanted to thank the other reviewers--Leviathon's Son, Marie Ward, Ashari, Saraki, Pupiish, Parrhasis, SBcowgirljunkie, EmpressGalaxia, Shattrdheart, Peridot3783, Tokimonster, Lily-Sama, Cyllwen, creature of the night, Angel,and My Name is R.C. If you're reading this, then thanks for everything and I hope you like it.  
Also, I'd like to thank everyone who's reading this who hasn't reviewed. No more delays, now. Onto the story!

* * *

"Meryl Stryfe?" Meryl sat up abruptly, scattering loose papers around her desk. She scrambled to gather them into a semi-organized pile. She had been thinking about him again–Vash the Stampede. It had been _years_ since their encounter, but the goofy, doughnut-scarfing gunslinger had been occupying her thoughts more and more. She snorted–he probably didn't even remember her name. 

"Meryl Stryfe!" The voice said, more sharply.

"Yes, sir?" She asked distractedly, snatching at a tricky sheet that had fluttered beneath her chair.

"Could you step into my office?"

_Oh no,_ thought Meryl, trying to remember if she'd been late recently. She smoothed her shirt, straightened her skirt, and stood. "Yes, sir!"

Mr. Bernardelli's office was being renovated, and his desk had been temporarily moved to a small closet-like space. The ceiling was low for even Meryl's short stature, and she found herself ducking slightly to avoid scraping her head. Sunlight filtered through a tiny window in one of the walls, illuminating languid dust motes, and Meryl felt ill-at-ease in the cramped place.

Mr. Bernadelli himself was seated behind a beautiful, Victorian desk that was ridiculously out-of-place wedged between the two walls. He was an older man, slightly balding and a little on the portly side. His expression was impossible to make out in the dim half-light and Meryl tried not to fidget beneath his stare.

"Yes, sir?" She found herself repeating, more to break the silence than anything.

Bernardelli cleared his throat, glanced down at some papers. "Apparently there's a new threat to our insurance policy."

The insurance girl waited, saying nothing.

"It's become quite the problem." He continued. "Very, troublesome, very troublesome." This last part was and inaudible mutter, and Meryl felt like he was talking to himself instead of addressing her. "Are you aware, Ms. Stryfe, that Bernadelli Insurance Company has paid over $$3 billion double dollars in repairs in the last six months alone? One man in particular has been the root cause of over 300 disasters!"

Meryl shook her head patiently, wondering exactly who "he" was.

"Well, it's become quite the problem," he repeated. "A huge liability. Bernardelli is losing a lot of money on this idiot." He interlaced his fingers and leaned across the desk, staring at her gravely. "As the founder and head of the Bernardelli Insurance Company, I have an obligation to keep things running smoothly and efficiently–and to keep the company out of the red, so to speak. This company is a huge part of the economy–a huge part, Meryl." He shook his head, mottled jowls trembling. "If Bernardelli closes, our investors go bankrupt, our stock buyers. Then there's the unemployment. 1 in 2,324 of the entire population of Gunsmoke is employed by Bernardelli or affected in some way by the company. The ramifications of 'going under' would be huge." He paused to make sure this was all sinking in, and Meryl nodded vigorously, hoping he would wrap the lecture up soon. She was getting a kink in her neck from hunching over.

"Well, the task of dealing with this problem rests squarely on my shoulders, Meryl," he continued, satisfied with her reaction. "It's quite the dilemma, you know. I've thought this over–and I want you to listen carefully, Meryl–because I've finally reached a conclusion." His voice dropped dramatically. "I am going to assign a handpicked pair of Bernadelli Insurance Agents to assess damage caused in similar scenarios–'disaster investigators', if you will."

Mr. Bernadelli took a deep, shuddering breath. "We have decided to assign you the task of following around an outlaw known as 'Vash the Stampede'."

Meryl's head shot up involuntarily, slamming painfully against the low ceiling. "Who, sir?" She winced, touching the sore spot tenderly. She couldn't be sure if she'd heard him right, or if her imagination was getting carried away with her.

"Vash the Stampede. Of course, the company realizes the dangers in this sort of undertaking. You...are aware of this so-called 'humanoid typhoon'?"

"Ah...I–uh–They say he's responsible for destroying July," Meryl said weakly.

Mr. Bernardelli grunted and broke eye contact. "Perhaps it would be beneficial to find a more experienced agent. I had chosen you because of your dedication and promise, Ms. Stryfe."

"He's number one on the top ten most wanted list–there's a $$60 billion double dollar bounty on his head. He's wanted for the destruction of several towns–strangely, they say no one died," Meryl blurted.

Mr. Bernardelli's face creased in a smile. "Kind of like 'you don't need God for a miracle'? Well, I suppose you'll do nicely for the job. Godspeed, Meryl!" Bernadelli returned his attention to the papers at his desk.

"Sir?" Prodded Meryl. "You said you were assigning _two _field workers?"

"Yes, yes," said Bernadelli. "Why don't you take that girl with you? What's her name...the one that's always late?"

"Milly Thompson?" The dark-haired girl offered. The thought of her naive, cheery friend brought a smile to her lips.

"That's the one," Bernadelli said with a wave of his hand. Taking this as a dismissal, Meryl darted eagerly from the office.

* * *

Milly hummed an upbeat tune as she riffled through the forms to be filled out. She selected one and began to read: 

_Please Print!_

_Application No. 12357569102313_

_The following person(s) is filing an insurance claim with the Bernardelli Insurance Co., manager and proprietor Mr. Gerald Bernardelli; sub-category houses. _

_Name: Douglas J. Kelley, Jr._

_Mailing Address: 79 main st. _

_Living Address: 79 main st. _

_Home Telephone: 555-3070 _

_Business Telephone: 555-4163 _

_Customer ID No: 2224 _

_Filing Claim: A micro-burst destroyed the porch of my house three days ago. The reparations cost an estimated three hundred and..._

Milly's eyes glazed over and she gave a small inward groan. The day was just too beautiful for this kind of work, she decided; her gaze traveled over to a large window. Beyond, she could see a deep blue sky, with just a few whispers of opaline clouds drifting by; the sand was so bright, it practically glowed.

"Milly!" Came a familiar, no-nonsense voice. "Milly, snap out of it."

"Huh?" Milly looked up, her pale blue eyes wide. "Sempai!" She cried. She leaped up, knocking her chair over.

"We have a mission, Milly," said Meryl, a smile tugging at her lips.

If possible, Milly's eyes grew even larger. She planted her hands on the desk and leaned over. "What is it, Sempai?"

"We have to track down a dangerous outlaw and make sure he no longer represents a threat to the Bernardelli Insurance Company," Meryl chirped happily.

"Ok, Meryl!" Milly said joyously. "Do I have time to pack?"

Meryl rolled her eyes. "Of course, Milly. We don't leave until the day after tomorrow."

"But 'a dangerous outlaw'? Aren't you scared, Meryl?"

Meryl looked out the window. Somewhere out there was Vash the Stampede. The man with sixty billion double dollars on his head. The legendary gunman she'd met two years ago in the middle of the storm-torn desert. The man who had slowly occupied her thoughts over the months–until today. She felt exhilarated. Nervous. A little anxious.

"No," she said softly to Milly. "I'm not scared at all."


End file.
